


The Long Night

by LearnedFoot



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, Monastery Life, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: The Mute does not come back on time from a dangerous journey.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	The Long Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



> Happy ChocoBox!

The dark rolls across the grass, its fingers stretching towards the monastery as the sun sinks, inevitably, out of view. Diarmuid wraps his arms around himself, willing the Mute’s tall silhouette to emerge over the hills. _Please, please, please_.

The rustle of heavy footsteps in the grass interrupts his silent begging, but he refuses to turn to see who has come to fetch him. That would be admitting defeat.

“Just a little longer,” he pleads. “He always comes back before sundown.”

“The sun is down, Diarmuid.” It’s Ciarán, voice calm and steady, as if he’s soothing a bucking horse. “Enough.”

Diarmuid tears his eyes away from the hills to implore Ciarán directly. “Just a few more minutes. He should have a friendly face when he returns.”

“Five,” Ciarán concedes, smile gentle. “I will wait with you.”

Diarmuid pinches his lips, biting back a retort. He does not need to be tended over like a lost lamb. Yes, last time his friend failed to return home on time Diarmuid ran off into the woods to find him, tripping and stumbling in the dark until he tumbled down a steep hill. But that was two summers ago, when Diarmuid was younger and more impulsive. Besides, a sprained ankle and the Abba’s harsh admonishments taught him his lesson. 

They stand in silence for what must be much longer than five minutes; the space between each heartbeat stretches into infinity as deep of night descends like a threat. Finally, Ciarán sighs, resting a hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder.

“Come,” he says, and this time his tone is forceful. “It helps no one for us to stand here all night.”

“But…” Diarmuid shivers. The chill has seeped below his robes without his even noticing. “What if he is hurt?”

“Then we will find him in the morning. But the willow grove is far; I suspect he simply decided to shelter somewhere safe for the night.”

It is logical, of course. The brothers knew the Mute’s journey was difficult to accomplish in a day; that is why he set out before even morning prayer, when the monastery was wet with dew and the sun hardly more than a whisper of light. Diarmuid had to wake early to see him off, shyly slipping him a clover for luck. Much help that has been.

“I should have gone with him,” Diarmuid mutters, as he reluctantly allows Ciarán to lead him back to the monastery.

Ciarán sighs the exaggerated sigh of the put-upon. It is a sound he reserves for Diarmuid alone. “We cannot have this argument every time we send him on a dangerous task.”

“Then let me go, next time.”

“Diarmuid—”

Diarmuid rips himself from Ciarán’s grasp, striding ahead, almost bursting into a run to get out of earshot before Ciarán finishes his response. Diarmuid is sick of this argument too, but he will not be able to help himself from repeating well-trod words if they keep speaking. He already knows how this conversation plays out: Ciarán assuring him the Mute is not alone, because God is by his side; Diarmuid snapping that of course he knows that, but it is not what he means. Ciarán would explain—again—that the monastery needs the healing bark, that no one else can go as safely and efficiently as the Mute, that Diarmuid accompanying him would only add to the danger, give his friend one more thing to worry about.

And that is where Diarmuid would lose, because it is true. He is aware of how necessary the task is and that he can add nothing but distraction. His presence on the Mute’s mission would do nobody any good, except Diarmuid, who would be spared this sinking fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

His argument is selfish as well as willful—he knows, he _knows_. So he walks ahead and spares them both the frustration.

***

Sleep, though—that is laughable. As if he could sleep on a night like this.

After an hour of tossing in his bed, fighting off dreadful visions of the Mute broken and twisted at the bottom of a hill, or mauled by a bear, or stabbed through on the blade of bandits, Diarmuid gives up and slips into the open air. He means only to relieve himself, but once he is outside his steps are drawn to the small hut his friend calls home.

He holds his breath as he slips inside, a part of his heart that is beyond logic expecting to see the Mute in his bed, returned safe after all. But, of course, the room is empty. In one corner sits a pair of boots—the newer of the two sets belonging to the Mute. It is good he wore the other pair; these are still stiff and give him blisters. Even better: his heaviest cloak is gone. That will serve him well if he is sleeping in the wilderness tonight.

No, not _if_. That is what he is doing. He must be, because any other option is—

Diarmuid shudders. 

He should return to his own bed, but the idea of spending the night fending off dire dreams is too painful. And what if the Mute comes back in the depth of darkness, hurt or afraid or simply too exhausted to function? Diarmuid would not even know. Better to stay here, then.

He nods to himself. Yes, much better.

He crosses the room and drops onto the rough palate that serves as the Mute’s bed, propping his back against the wall and pulling the Mute’s patchy wool blanket around his shoulders. It is barely any help against the chill. No surprise—Diarmuid has spent enough cold winter nights huddled in this very spot, leeching his friend’s body heat, to know the Mute produces plenty of warmth all on his own. Yet despite its flimsiness the blanket is a comfort. It smells of the Mute; the heady musk of his body after a long day’s work is woody and familiar.

Diarmuid buries his face in the blanket, clutching it close, whispering prayers for protection like a secret. The words tumble from his lips rote and ready, without the need for thought. Beneath them beats the chant that has pounded through his skull all evening: _please, please, please_.

***

He does not know when he fell asleep, but he is woken by a startled gasp. His body is sore, muscles protesting the awkward position he left them in all night, but his pain is forgotten when he sees the Mute standing in the doorway, framed by the thin light of dawn, wearing a confused frown.

“You’re alive!” Diarmuid exclaims, too relieved to be embarrassed by how he was found. He leaps to his feet and throws himself at the Mute without thinking. It is only when the Mute stumbles under his weight that he realizes he should ask, “Are you hurt?”

He feels the Mute shake his head more than sees it—their faces are too close together for eyes to be of much use. Diarmuid clings, hands tight in the rough fabric of the Mute’s traveling robe, longing for reassurance that the Mute’s body is here. Selfish, again; seeking his own comfort before all else. Reluctantly, he drops the embrace and takes a few steps back.

The Mute stares at him with that same confused frown. He glances at his bed, then back at Diarmuid. Diarmuid flushes, embarrassment finally catching up to him. The Mute has never protested the nights Diarmuid spends with him, but stealing into his space when the Mute is not there is different. Presumptuous.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes falling to the floor. “I was just so worried, and I thought maybe you would come home in the middle of the night and require assistance. And I know you— you would never bother anyone while we slept, so I wanted to ensure I would be here for you, and, and—”

 _And your scent kept my heart from exploding out of my chest_. But he cannot say that; it is too strange. He trails off, looking at his feet, fingers toying with the cuffs of his robe, waiting for rebuke. Instead, he receives the Mute’s palm wide and rough on his cheek, raising his face. Their eyes meet. The Mute’s are filled with sorrow so intense it makes Diarmuid ache.

“What’s wrong?” Diarmuid’s voice sticks on its way out of his throat. “Did something happen out there?”

The Mute shakes his head again. His hand slips down Diarmuid’s neck, past the hollow of his throat, across his chest, coming to rest over his heart. He leaves it there and nods, as if that is an explanation.

Diarmuid can normally read the Mute as easily as if his thoughts were written in words above his head, but he cannot place the anguish on his friend’s face now, or how it connects to the burning heat of his touch through Diarmuid’s robes. “I—I’m sorry, I do not understand.” 

The Mute sighs. His fingers stroke over Diarmuid’s heart, once, twice, three times, then drift back up, into his hair. He tugs Diarmuid closer, bending to meet him until their foreheads bump together.

And still, there so much sorrow in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid repeats, lost. His heart pounds so hard it is difficult to think. “I’m so sorry, I cannot—I’m sorry for not understanding.”

The Mute’s free hand finds one of Diarmuid’s and clutches it, squeezing tight. The gesture, combined with Diarmuid’s own words, makes things clear.

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

The Mute’s mouth twitches at the corner, pleased. Diarmuid must be correct. But why would he be—oh.

“For frightening me? You’re sorry for frightening me? Is that it?”

The Mute nods. He tilts his head, brushing his lips to Diarmuid’s nose. His beard tickles. Diarmuid giggles, delighted by the feel of it, and at the sudden onslaught of relief. The Mute is not upset with him. The Mute is alive, unharmed, he survived his journey—all is well.

His giggle turns into a laugh as it hits him at once. The Mute is fine, and they are fine, and the long night is over.

“There is nothing for you to apologize for,” Diarmuid says through his laughter. “It is not your fault. I’m just so glad you came back.”

The Mute uncurls to full height, face soft and fond. He paws at Diarmuid’s hair, perhaps trying to tame it. The touch makes Diarmuid’s skin spark from his scalp all the way to his toes.

“How about this?” He offers, voice wobbling slightly. “If you promise you will always return, I promise to worry less.”

It is an absurd suggestion. The Mute can make no such promise, and Diarmuid will always worry. And yet, the Mute considers him with complete seriousness before bringing his hand to his own heart and bowing his head in silent oath.

Suddenly giddy—perhaps it is the lack of sleep—Diarmuid launches himself on his tiptoes, aiming to echo the Mute’s kiss. He only manages to land his lips on the bottom of the Mute’s chin. Still, he thinks he gets the point across.

They have a bargain. 


End file.
